


Sailing Off the Edge of the World

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bullied charecter, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time Together, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, Headcanon, I am backstory's bitch, I got your headcanon right here, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Poverty, Second Chances, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 04:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15574086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: E. Skinner Norris grew up comfortably off, but that ended when he came out. Now, he's jobless and almost homeless and his last chance may be a guy who's an unlikely cross between John-Boy Walton and a superhero. How meeting Mart Belden changed 'Ben's life for the better.





	Sailing Off the Edge of the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



My day started early and I’ve covered most of Rocky Beach, on foot. I’ve been all over town looking for a job, and there’s nothing. Even at the Seahorse Tavern, where I can usually trade dish-washing for dinner isn’t in need of my services. This is not good. Breakfast--a handful of dry cereal because I can’t afford milk--wore off hours ago, but I have zero dollars and zero cents in my pocket. Even if Duffy wasn’t going to practically go through my pockets for it, it’s nine whole days til the first of the month and my next infusion of cash. 

Right now, I’m worse than broke; I owe Duffy, my so-called landlord, and he’s threatening to throw me out. Duffy is scum; he’s been taking every penny I get from my stipend every month…ever since I lost my last real job, I’ve been living on an air mattress in his garage. Mind you, he’s renting out three of the four bedrooms for more than enough to cover his mortgage and overhead--he can afford to cut me a break--but that’s the kind of guy he is.

I’m trying to think of whether there’s anybody at all I can tap for a loan--at this point, even five bucks would be a lifesaver. It would buy me a carton of ramen, if Duffy wasn’t being a bitch about me using the microwave. If nothing else, I could go to the bakery outlet that has day-old bread and cereal and stuff. My mouth waters at the thought of their cheap donuts covered in powered sugar.

Then I see him. He’s crossing the street, energetic strides, arms swinging as he walks. He leans against the railings of the boardwalk, too tanned to be a tourist, but too entranced by the ocean to be a local. He’s got some muscle, the kind you get from hard work, not a gym. His hair is the color you see in pictures of wheat-fields.

Some little instinct draws me toward him. You’d think I’d know better than to hit on a stranger, after what happened with Woody, but hey, I’m dumb and desperate.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” I comment as I saunter up to him. 

“It is,” he agrees, looking at me, and oh god! He’s got the bluest eyes ever! “Looking out at that--” he nods his head toward the Pacific, “makes you realize why the old-time sailors used to think they might accidentally sail off the edge of the world.”

I think I just did. I nod agreement, but if he’d said the Eiffel Tower was built out of baguettes and brie, I probably would’ve agreed with that, too. His accent is East Coast, but looking at him, I’m thinking farm boy, cute and corn-fed from the Little House on the Prairie or some shit like that. 

My stomach is starting to growl like a couple alley cats tuning up for a fight, and he must hear it, “Join me for lunch?” he invites me. “My treat.”

Score! “Great, thanks!” I answer demurely. The Seahorse Tavern has the best burgers in town, but too many people know me there--the last thing I need is for Duffy to show up and wreck my chance for a decent meal. So I suggest Minton’s, which is a little classier, and we stroll over there. He’s shorter than I am--most people are; I topped out at 6’3”--so I find myself trying not to leave him behind. I’m so hungry the idea of actual protein has me almost sprinting.

We both order burgers, and while we’re waiting for them, he tells me about the farm he’s bought. (I was right!) with umpteen acres of citrus groves, and his plans for organic farming. He grew up on a farm (Right again!) on the banks of the Hudson, upriver from New York City. (Gee, Skinner, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore!)

When our burgers arrive, he takes a couple bites of his, puts it down, starts talking about rare ‘heirloom’ varieties of vegetables, and how he’s applying to a seed bank for some to start. He’s really earnest about it, like it’s some kind of big deal for him. I try to concentrate on what he’s saying, but to be honest, I’m torn between devouring my burger and watching his hands as he talks. They’re as muscular as the rest of him, with knobby knuckles and a faint rime of dirt under his nails, although otherwise he’s perfectly clean. Hands that look like they know what they’re doing….

Pretty soon, there’s nothing left on my plate except the stripe around the rim, and there’s still half a burger on his plate and he’s talking about chickens.

I finally get up the nerve to ask, “Are you gonna finish that?”

He stops. Looks at me. I mean, really looks. My weight has always been at the low end of the range for my height, and at the moment, I’m about ten pounds below that. I’ve gone from skinny to gaunt since last summer.

My new friend waives to attract the server’s attention. “My pal needs another burger,” he tells her. “Well done, hold the onions, right? Could we get a side of fries, too, please?”

“Thank you,” I mutter, feeling embarrassed. This was _not_ how I was brought up--my dad would have a shit-fit if he saw me hustling his guy for lunch. 

Before I know I’m going to say anything, I’m telling him about my folks splitting up when I was six. The war for custody, where I was a bargaining chip. My maternal grandmother lived here in Rocky Beach, and somehow I ended up here every summer, winters at boarding school, until I turned 18. Then my mom went and got remarried and moved to Florida, while my dad cut off all contact when I came out. My grandmother wasn’t well; she died two years and four months ago, at which point I’d moved into Duffy’s. At first I’d had a room, then I’d lost my job and ended up out in the garage.

At that point, reinforcements arrive. The second burger is just as succulent as the first, although I’m slower with this one. And the fries! Minton’s doesn’t use frozen fries, they hand-cut them in the kitchen--I’ve worked there, too--and these are hot and crispy.

He talks like something out of a 1950's comic book I notice, his speech peppered with phrases like ‘Holy cannoli’ and ‘Jeepers’. Really…? I finally ask him about it. “My mom’s dad was a minister, and she was really strict about ‘improper’ language. She says there are plenty of perfectly good words to use that don’t involve body parts or things that should be flushed down the toilet.”

“Gosh golly gee whiz?” I suggest, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, just grins, an adorable cross between Archie and Captain America..

“My dad’s a banker,” he tells me. “So I didn’t fool around much when I lived at home--I heard him talking about somebody he worked with, that he wasn’t going to be promoted because his son was gay…I wouldn’t do that to my dad, but now I’m three thousand miles away, who’s gonna know?”

“I don’t think that’s legal,” I say, licking ketchup from my fingers.

“Eh, small town. They’re fussy about stuff like that.”

I demolish that second burger and do my part on the fries. “Look,” he says as we’re picking at the last few stubs of greasy potato, “You said you’re looking for work?”

I nod. I’d pray, if I thought anyone was listening.

“Look, I’m nowhere near turning a profit. All this? I’m getting money from my dad for start-up costs. I’m sorry, I can’t afford to pay you, but you’ll never starve on a farm.”

“I accept.” I’m an idiot, I think. Last summer, I went off with a good-looking guy and I’ll have the scars for the rest of my life. He seemed harmless, too, but he wasn’t, and neither were the guys he took me to ‘party’ with. But at this point, I’m not even being reckless, just hopeless because I’m days away from being homeless. “I don’t know anything about farms,” I add, because that’s going to be pretty obvious, “but I’ll work hard, I swear.”

“Just like that? For all you know, I could be a serial killer!” He looks upset. “How old are you anyway? Let me see some ID.”

I consider lying, saying I don’t have any, that it got stolen or something, but what the hell. It would be even dumber to lose out on a steady gig over something so trivial.

Still, my shoulder are hunched up anticipating the inevitable joke as I hand him my driver’s license which identifies me as Ebeneezer Skinner Norris. “I was named for a rich uncle,” I explain. “Usually I go by my middle name.”

“Skinner? Now _that_ sounds like a serial killer! And you’re…holy smoke, you’re two years older than I am?! Well, at least I know you’re not jailbait!” That gorgeous grin would melt glass and I can’t help smiling back. “How about I call you Ben, would that be okay?”

Ben. It’s simple, normal-sounding, not going to trigger any Scrooge references…why didn’t anyone think of that twenty years ago? Why didn’t I? “I’d like that.”

He pulls out his own wallet, partly to pay the check, but also showing me a shiny-new California license than introduces me to Martin Andrew Belden. “Mart”, he corrects me when I repeat the whole thing. And sure enough, he’s twenty, a few months shy of 21.

“This is your car?” I gasp when he leads me to a hearse parked in one of the municipal lots. Somewhere along the line, it got a coat of pastel blue paint. “That’s sick! Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?”

“Do you think I’d tell you if I was?” he counters.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say finally. “But if you are, would you do something for me? Leave my body somewhere pretty, like a forest or the beach. Not some nasty old alley or dumpster. Please?”

Mart looks like he’s been sucker-punched. He’s trying to say something, but no words are coming out. At last, he leans forward and kisses me. He’s still standing on the curb, which equalizes our heights, and that kiss--

It makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve been touched, let alone kissed. Clue: I don’t even remember the last time I kissed a guy. It goes on and on, anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes, but by the time we come up for air, I know all I need to know about Mart Belden. It reinforces the impression of kind and generous and now I know he’s steady. I don’t mean it like that old-fashioned term, ‘going steady’, I mean, steady, like someone you can lean on and they’ll hold you up.

“Let’s go get your stuff,” Mart says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Which way to that place you were at?”

I give him directions, although if Duffy’s there, things might get real.

No sign of Duffy’s car, sing hallelujah! I don’t have much, really--the air mattress, a trash bag’s worth of laundry, a bricked laptop, an old clock radio and a couple small souvenirs from my old life. Oh, and half a box of stale raisin bran. Mart picks up the air mattress, bedding and all, and slides it into the back of the hearse. It fits perfectly. I’m hastily throwing the rest of it into a box--I’m afraid Duffy will show up…which he does, as I’m crossing the lawn with my bag of clothes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he roars at me.

I flinch. I may be taller, but Duffy outweighs me by at least fifty pounds.

“He’s leaving,” Mart says, tone steely. “And you’re not going to do anything about it.” OMG, he really _is_ a superhero!

“Like hell! Who the fuck are you?”

“The guy who’s going to report you to Code Enforcement if you don’t stand down. This neighborhood is zoned single-family residential and you’ve got how many people crashing here? And you’ve got the unmitigated gall to charge two hundred dollars a month for the privilege of putting down an air mattress in your garage? Get out of my face or I’m going to break you in half.”

Duffy is both heavier and taller than Mart (who's 5’10”, according to the State of California), but he’s soft. One look at Mart flexing his pecs is enough to dissuade him. He glares at me, but steps aside.

“Damn, that was badass,” I sigh admiringly once we’re on our way.

“If there’s anything I hate, it’s somebody who picks on people when they’re down. Trying to make a quick buck off them? That’s despicable.”

Heaven help me, he’s so darned heroic, I think I’m falling in love with him, which might as well be sailing off the edge of the world.. 

Darned? Damn, it’s starting to rub off.

We make small-talk during the drive, mostly him commenting on the differences he’s noticed between New York and California. He’s been here since October, and he can’t get over how mild the winter was. No snow to shovel! And look at how green everything is--back home, things are just starting to bud….

It’s really endearing. I don’t think a serial killer could be so poetic talking about things like crab apple trees in bloom or forsythia bushes…I’ve never seen either one, but he makes them sound lovely.

“Do you miss it?” I ask.

He mulls that over for a moment. “I talk to my folks on the phone all the time, so I don’t exactly miss them. Most of my friends are in school; they’re all over the country, so I wouldn’t be hanging out with them a lot, even if I was there. And…it was a great place to grow up, it really was--but I’m grown up now, and it’s time for me to build my future.”

He’s so aw-shucks determined I’m getting really turned on. Still, he seems so innocent that I’m starting to worry. Yes, he’s of age, yes, he says he’s done things--but has he really? I’ll have to tread lightly.

I’m expecting a farmhouse. Imagine my surprise when we vroom down the driveway and pull up in front of a structure that looks like a half-buried golf ball. There’s a deck out front, I presume in lieu of a porch, with an old chair and a rocker on it, and there’s a dog-house looking thing attached…wait, it’s not a golf ball, it’s an igloo!

“This place is crazy,” I say, trying to get it to gibe with the John-Boy Walton thing he’s got going on.

“The price was right,” he shrugs, keying open the door to the dog-house. It leads to a sort of airlock with some jackets hanging on hooks and bins for recycling.

Inside, the igloo is reassuringly normal. The furniture looks used but comfortable and there’s a lingering scent of lemons, unlike Chez Duffy, which smells like gym socks and rancid pizza sauce. 

“What do you think?” Mart asks diffidently.

“This is great, it really is.” Three-quarters of it is an open floor-plan, walls curving to its apex.

“Come on upstairs.”

A staircase near the front door curves up to the loft. It’s dominated by a gigantic king-sized bed, and in a little triangle of space is a tiny half-bath to avoid trips downstairs in the middle of the night. Excellent. Although…I don’t know, he may be planning to park me and my air mattress downstairs somewhere.

“So, look, I don’t want you to think you have to put out for this job,” he says earnestly. “I mean, I think we’ve got chemistry, but if you think I’m coming on too strong--”

“Why don’t we try it and see how it goes?” I propose, because honestly, I’m hot for him, I just have reservations. I’m damaged goods; I don’t know how I’m going to react when push comes to shove, and I mean that exactly the way it sounds.

For the last two hours, I’ve been wanting to see where his tan lines end. Now I tug the bottom of his tank top up and he obligingly wriggles out of it. What’s that expression? Form follows function, and you can tell he’s used to working hard, because he’s lean--not skinny, but he’s in the best shape possible without anything being exaggerated. 

He tsk-tsks when he sees me. “Ah, Ben--we’ve got to put some meat on your bones. When’s the last time you had regular meals, tell me that?”

“It’s been a while.”

He kisses my collarbone, because that’s where his lips come up to on me. “Look, if you’re not up to it, I’ll understand.”

Is he not the sweetest guy ever? I take his hand and prove that I am indeed up to it. Fake it til you make it, ha ha. Imagine my surprise when Mr. Innocent-Looking pulls out a well-thumbed copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_. Okay, so he _isn’t_ going to be total vanilla missionary-position…damn, this guy is full of surprises, but so far, in a good way.

He respects my boundaries. He doesn’t ask questions, just asks if I mind doing _that_ to him; I don’t. We’re at it for quite a while. It’s amazing, but somehow I’m not there in my head. Which is great for him--we try a couple different positions he’s been curious about, and I know a few tricks that could practically bring a guy back from the dead. His only complaint is asking me not to call him ‘Daddy’, which throws me. “Who’s your Daddy?” is so ubiquitous.

“How about ‘Daddy-o’?” he proposes. Ooh, Farm-boy sees himself as a hipster! How cute is that? I should get him a straw fedora to wear while he’s plowing, or whatever.

Finally, Daddy-o swears he’s going blind, and asks in tones of incredulity if I always have this much stamina? Or am I on something?

I laugh and ask if I can go wash up. I’ve gotten into the habit of taking advantage of any convenient facilities to get clean in, because it was easier than dealing with Duffy’s badgering whenever I went inside the house. It doesn’t even occur to me at the moment that there must be a bigger bathroom with a tub or shower around here somewhere. I’m tall enough to use most sinks as a bidet and that’s what I do here.

When I come back out, he pats the bed next to him, and I hope he’s not going to ask for another round, because by now, I’m over it. Still, I’ve burned my other bridges behind me, so I settle onto the bed, and to my astonishment, he draws me in close and starts to _cuddle_. That? Is a first.

“That was incredible,” he breathes into my ear. “I had no idea it could be like that.” A kiss, just below my ear. “I really appreciate it, Ben. Thank you.”

I guess it’s like men who’ve been at sea for a long time, coming ashore to find out that dry land doesn’t seem to be standing still. The unexpected tenderness pitches my reality a-skew; my psyche crashes like a wave and then I’m adding buckets of my own salt water to the mix. 

Since Grandmother’s funeral, I’ve only cried after That Weekend--otherwise, I’ve remained stoic after being fired (repeatedly, from like, four different jobs), being bullied by Duffy, being sick with hunger most of the time...it was all part of the general misery that was my life. Crying is too exhausting; when it takes all your strength to get by from day to day, it’s another unaffordable luxury.

Here I am, bawling, with Daddy-o holding me, gently stroking my face and my hair. I can’t remember ever having someone to cry on--not my ‘rents and not Grandmother, who was happy to sit nearby and ask me questions about why I was crying, but never commiserating, always telling me that whatever upset me wasn’t the end of the world and there were always people who had it worse. Mart’s gentle touch is reassuring without being intrusive, and gradually I calm down.

“Here, blow,” he says when I come up for air and look around.

“But that’s your shirt!”

“So? I’ll throw it in the wash. Unless you have some kind of weird radioactive acid snot or something, I’m not worried about it.” His tone is light, but there’s such concern in his sky-blue eyes that it almost starts me crying again.

“Okay, I’m guessing you’re not interested in me servicing you. Later, okay? Call it a rain check. Taking things a step further, I’m guessing your blood sugar is probably down around your ankles. Yeah, you had a big lunch, but that’s the first real food you’ve had in what, a week? and you just ran the sexual decathlon. What do you like on your pizza, Ben?”

A new name. A fresh start doing something I’ve never even thought of trying before. (Me? A farmer?!) A guy who genuinely seems to care about me, although I’m too shy to ask why. I’m caught in the current, being drawn to the edge of the world, and I’m too worn out to struggle against it. 

I wonder what happens after I fall off?

“Bacon and black olives are nice.”

…


End file.
